Friday, April 30, 2010

Since this blog is a workshop for words, I figured I'd put up some of the one [occasionally two] liners that I've typed into my cellphone's "notepad" application. Maybe putting them here will give them enough space to be fleshed out. Or, maybe they'll stand well enough alone.

~The rain washed away despotic hoof prints, and in their place grew grass so green.

~Music plays, but it can't drown out the tunnel's scream; like a kettle boiling, voicing the tensions this city refuses to express.

~Spring is nearly here. The trees are budding, and the tips of the forest are tinted frosting pink.

~Why am I so much more content to wear mediocrity than swaddle myself in bliss. Perhaps the change of clothes, I'm not much for the cold.

~Today, she wore her hair up, and when the train came in its wind wound caressingly around her neck. She was so far and yet so close to being alone, a single woman traveling through a mass of strangers.

~Darling, do what you will. You can't hurt me, I am granite wrapped in silk.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

I took this job because I can’t sleep. No, not
that I can’t sleep it’s more that I shouldn’t.
I’m an extremely active sleepwalker;
and, though I’m not completely sure, a potentially
violent one as well. I know where you think
this is going, but I’ve seen Fight Club and
I’m no Tyler Durden. I’m a very
nice girl, with a very nice family,

and a very nice Bachelor’s Degree in
Sociology. I still live about
30 minutes away from my parent’s
house. A social worker by day and a
graveyard shift wage slave by night. I try to
make my hours as full as possible
so that when I do get home I’ll only
have just enough sleep to keep me going.

And I do go: on dates, to the homes of
clients, the occasional working lunch,
and the occasional family dinner.
Despite the normalcy of all these things
I admit that there is something off. Some
issue, some underlying psychological
problem that makes the simplicity of
everything else seem so saccharine. Maybe

it’s just because I never got the chance
to go to war. In comparison, everything
feels less real, less viable somehow.
But there’s more than that, there
must be some reason why noone’s ever
come to find me after…that couple: I couldn’t
tell if they’d been a man and a woman,
a man and a man, a woman and a
woman… My eyes flew open halfway
through whatever I had been doing and
I ran. I felt the wind drying and cooling
my skin, caking my clothes onto my body

until, disgusted, I whipped them off of
me onto the ground, I continued in
the nude and on bare feet. I stopped, vomited,
ran, stopped to catch my breath, vomited again,
and finally made it back home. I passed
out in bed almost as soon as I’d reached
it. I woke up the next morning and nothing
was out of place, I couldn’t even smell

the sick on my breath, what had happened? I
was sure it had been real, but I had no
proof; not that I was upset about it,
I remember thinking before anything
else, “Thank god, that’s one less thing I have to
worry about.” It sickens me to this
day that those were the first words out of my
mouth; such subconscious nonchalance pulls the

left side of my face up into a grimace
when I think about it. I remembered
the street where I’d left my clothes and I went
to find them, they were there, rumpled, but clean
and dry. Everything tells me that it was
all in my head, a walking night terror,
but I don’t believe it, and I don’t trust it.
So I work nights, to make sure that what the

world tells me didn’t happen won’t happen
again. Sometimes I wonder if this insistence
is what really makes me insane, but mostly
I just wonder what is wrong with me?

(I wrote this from an assignment prompt in my poetry workshop. It was supposed to be a monologue by someone who is not you, with an arbitrary syllable count per line, and arbitrary amount of lines per stanza. It went to a surprisingly dark and confusing place. It needs critiquing, perhaps I'll have to comeback to it at some later date)

Sunday, April 18, 2010

A friend gave me this song for my birthday, this band is apparently newer than new. Their album just came out Tuesday, and this is the only Youtube video for them. It only even has 871 views. HOT DAMN, I sure feel trendy.

{Oh hey, there's gonna be some [SPOILERS!!!] floating around in here, so beware and be aware.}

Ok, I'm a comic book reader and a feminist (not even one in quotes, you guys! And no, I don't castrate people, and I don't hate men. Now that that's out of the way...).

Yes, there's no denying that the film "Kick Ass" is:

a) NOT for children
b) An imperfect film
c) Better than most of the crap that's been released in the last few months, yes, "Clash of the Titans" I'm looking at you.

And as far as Hit Girl is concerned, I love her, she's fantastic. No, she's not some perfect feminist miracle baby of justice and righteousness. She's just a little girl, with big guns, a lot of moxie, and tactical martial arts training. I don't care that she uses the word cunt, I don't care that she skewers some chick into a door with short swords, I don't even really care that she was shot and fell out of a window. (Although the whole FPS cam night-vision-goggles-with-tactical-knife-and-pistol scene was pretty awesome)

I like her as a character, and for the people who say that she should be more affected by the killing she does, (un)realistically she's been training for this since she was 5 years old. Her life is like a childhood fantasy game, and for all intents and purposes she's a female Robin; with the difference being that Batman is her biological father rather than a father figure. The film is meant to be a showcase displaying "what would happen if superheroes really existed", and aside from being a biological female, she's no different than the Dark Knight's brightly costumed buddy. Hit Girl's life is clearly a lot more dangerous, but that's because it's happening in the "real" world (yep, both italicized and in quotes). Let's not forget that these people are trying to kill her and it's not like she doesn't acknowledge the threat or reality of death. Both when she was almost killed by Razul's doorman, and when her father is essentially burned alive, you see through the superhero into the eyes of a little girl. She is powerful, but real and occasionally frightened.

The other complaint I've heard is about the fact that Hit Girl, because she was trained by her father, is not so much empowered as a power tool for the patriarchy. But I disagree, in fact, one thing I'm pleased about with respect to Hit Girl's relationship with her father is that after Big Daddy dies (and she avenges him), she goes back to school and begins to live as an actual child. It's as if in seeking recompense for her father's death she is effectively severed from his official influence. She gains her own agency and with all the power he taught her to master, she is free to make her own decisions, to use said power as she sees fit.

But let's turn the tables: if Hit Girl was trained by her mother (Hit Mama/Mommy) people would complain about the use of the femme fatale trope. Critics would be upset that (what is intended to pass as) an empowered woman is being portrayed seeking insane vengeance at the expense of their child, thus dehumanizing them both. Now, that doesn't make this films problems ok, but it does mean that this is a movie and sometimes as people who analyze society (myself included) it's very easy to look for the negatives, to see oppression in everything. It doesn't mean it isn't ever there, but sometimes there's more value to something that hasn't been dissected until it's unrecognizable. Which I guess is the point I want to make about this film and Hit Girl specifically, give your kids/the rest of society a bit more credit, they can distinguish fantasy from reality and for the most part they have common sense. And if you're really that concerned about it, that's what discussion is for, friend.

My favorite part about this hullaballoo is that Hit Girl has completely overshadowed the character of Kick Ass, although from what I've heard Millar originally wanted to write the comic about just Hit Girl and her father, but didn't think people would be able to relate to the characters. I wonder how he feels about all this...

Friday, April 16, 2010

When poor decisions are made completely
of my own volition, I can only apologize
to those who are off put.
But I wont deny it, something
desperate in me revels in this
foolishness and fuckery.

There is so much that I don't know,
and that makes it easy to admit when failure
has overtaken my ambition.
My thoughts will run out
past my common sense, leaving
little chance for recollection.
And yet, I feel no regret.

Like a picnic planned
on a day guaranteed to see rain.
I may have to run for cover,
but what's more fun than letting the precipatate
hide your embarrassment,
sobs of shame masked as soaking wet guffaws.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

Breathe in,
and instantly ash begins
to flutter away in the wind
like soft flower petals.
You're entranced, and too far in already.
It pulls on you
more than you pull on it,
hiding the oxygen from your lungs,
intoxicating you and looping
you into rhythmic patterns of thought.
Every cell can feel the music now
and every old sensation delights with new found verve.
You find yourself, swaddled in the world,
newborn yet self-reflecting.

Monday, April 5, 2010

and exorcise all of his soul
that's what this sound is.
Howling along with his goddamn keyboard,
in the middle of the day.

His voice is low
and yelp-y, like a dog kicked
past the point of biting back.
It breaks and creaks,
like chalk scraping a chalkboard
while the teacher's acrylic nails
slowly dig into the hard, dark green plane.

It's a voice that burbles and mumbles.
Like a cracked, airy bass clarinet
distinct from the surrounding music
in its utter mediocrity.

The lies he tells himself must be Satan's
greatest blessing,
and God's (as well as my) eternal misery.

I came to you with curiosity,
a query, and a forward facing desire.
You bound me to the question
shocked me with your fire.
I lay in place
simply "me my yoke and I"
Feelings of peace drifting over
as I lay, escapeless, on my side.